


Truck Stop

by ameliacareful



Series: Massa Carnis [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e12 Faith, M/M, Sam is a slave, explicit depictions of prostitution, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: When Dean zaps a rawhead and fatally damages his heart, Sam sets out to find a cure.  Dean is weakened physically and emotionally.  Sam must take charge.#The truck stop is a fifteen minute walk from the motel in the November evening chillThe hard white light from over the pumps spills across the asphalt. Inside is warm. The restaurant is full of men eating, the store is doing a good business. Showers and administration are in the back.At the office in the back he waits by the door until the guy in the Flying J polo shirt looks up. “Can I help you?”Sam holds up his left hand with it’s barcode. “Stock, sir. Here for the hospitality station.”The guy frowns, mostly just a little surprised and maybe busy. Distracted. “Where’s your owner?”Sam fishes out his pass and the photo copy of his license. While Dean was in the hospital, he’d gotten Dean’s doctor to update his tests so he’s marked as up to date and clean. “My owner’s in the hospital, sir. But he sent me.” Dean’s in the motel room because ‘he’s not going to die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even pretty’ but that’s more than the man cares about.





	Truck Stop

 

 

           The truck stop is a fifteen minute walk from the motel in the November evening chill but Sam doesn’t want to take the Impala, doesn’t want to risk Dean waking up when he hears the engine. Before he left he gave Dean his evening meds, including an Ambien to knock him out. The doctor prescribed it. Sam wouldn’t give Dean drugs unless the doctor did. He can’t do that.

He tromps on the edge of the four lane highway towards the interstate, trying to keep his old sneakers out of the wet, then cuts across the huge parking lot under the Flying J sign. There are rows of gasoline bays sized for trucks to the side of place, gas pumps for cars in front.

            The hard white light from over the pumps spills across the asphalt. Inside is warm. The restaurant is full of men eating, the store is doing a good business. Showers and administration are in the back.

            At the office in the back he waits by the door until the guy in the Flying J polo shirt looks up. “Can I help you?”

            Sam holds up his left hand with it’s barcode. “Stock, sir. Here for the hospitality station.”

            The guy frowns, mostly just a little surprised and maybe busy. Distracted. “Where’s your owner?”

            Sam fishes out his pass and the photo copy of his license. While Dean was in the hospital, he’d gotten Dean’s doctor to update his tests so he’s marked as up to date and clean. “My owner’s in the hospital, sir. But he sent me.” Dean’s in the motel room because ‘he’s not going to die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even pretty’ but that’s more than the man cares about.

            The man grunts his acknowledgement and glances back at the papers on his desk, reading glasses sliding down his nose. Looks like invoices. “Scan,” he says.  

            Sam looks around.

            “It’s by the coffee maker. Don’t touch the coffee.”

            “Yessir. Are there stock facilities?”

            “Stock bathroom is in the back,” the guy says.

            Sam scans his hand at the barcode reader by the coffee machine and takes his chit giving him access for the night. The coffee smells really good and he wishes he could have a cup. He’s gotten used to coffee. The slave bathroom is actually outside. He has to go out the front and walk around the building. The smell of gasoline and diesel hangs in the air. The bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in awhile but it’s heated and has paper towels. Which is, as Dean would say, ‘awesome’.

            He runs warm water in the sink and fills his enema bulb, then goes into one of the stalls and strips. He’d cleaned up before he came but he’s found just when he thought he was clean, sometimes thirty minutes later more would shake lose. In his experience, some guys don’t care as along as he’s reasonably clean but some guys flip. Like sticking your dick in an ass doesn’t occasionally involve shit. He puts a foot on the toilet and works the tip of the enema bulb past the sphincter, squeezes and feels the warmth fill him, then squats over the toilet and lets it out. The toilet doesn’t invite people to actually sit on it. The bowl is ringed with rust and stain.

            He’d cut off one of his pairs of jeans, high enough that it showed a little butt cheek. He’d also shaved his legs. It made him look younger. The better he could do at looking younger, the better off he’d be. Younger meant less threatening. He has a t-shirt he’d ripped the sleeves off and cut off to show his midriff. No underwear or socks. It isn’t a particularly attractive outfit but it makes it clear what he’s here for.

            He folds his clothes and carefully puts them in his bag. Dean paid for them. While he waits for few minutes to be certain his gut isn’t going to announce any surprises, he digs out his eyeliner. He doesn’t expect to get fucked but if someone offers, it would be a fast $200 so he wants to be ready. When he was a kid working in a club, it had been easier. Stock chow was high in fiber and if there was a party or something, his boss just didn’t feed him the night before and that day. But it turns out that chicken sandwiches from Micky D’s play havoc with one’s colon.

            He finds the Hospitality Stop on the side of the building in sight of the largest area of truck parking. There’s a woman there already. She’s short and slightly bowlegged, wearing a short skirt and a tiny jacket. She has her hands stuffed in her pockets. There’s a bit of wind and Sam’s already got goosebumps so he’s glad that the stop is like a bus stop with shelter if it rains. The sides block the wind. A poster advertises El Sol beer.

            The woman looks up at him, irritated, probably at the competition although Sam doesn’t think their customers will overlap but hell, he hasn’t worked a truck stop in years and then only a handful of times. She has black hair and dark eyes. She isn’t pretty.

            “Hi,” he says.

            “You’re new.”

            “Yeah,” he says.

            She looks him up and down and shrugs. “Tabby,” she says by way of introduction.

            “Like the cat?”

            “Like the cat.”

            “Sam,” he says.

            “What brings you here, Sam?”

            He sits down on the cold yellow plastic of the bench. Hopefully he’d get someone and soon. He’s shooting for a minimum of $200. He figures a couple of blow jobs will do it. “My owner is my brother,” he says. “He found me. You know. We do construction, usually. He was digging and hit an electrical line and it damaged his heart. So, here I am. How’s the turnover?”

            “Okay,” she says. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”

            He smiles at her. “Guess what?” He produces the pack.

            She takes a cigarette. “Too bad about your brother,” she says. “He gonna be okay?”

            “It’s kind of touch and go,” Sam says. “Do you know if someone here sells weed?”

            “One of the guys in the kitchen can hook you up,” she says. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Seth.”

            He shouldn’t spend Dean’s money on it but he hasn’t done this in so long and he always preferred to work a little stoned. He tells himself he’ll make more.

            Seth is a skinny white guy with prison tats. He’s soaked from washing dishes. He sells Sam a nickel bag for $15 and throws in papers and a book of matches. It’s not a lot but Sam’s grateful. “You want a pipe? I can probably get someone who can buy a pipe for you,” Seth says. Slaves aren’t allowed in the store. He’s surprised there are pipes there. Or maybe Seth means come back tomorrow.

            Sam would prefer a pipe but he’s already abusing Dean’s money. “This is great, man.”

            Seth gives him a high five and a hand clasp. “Don’t envy you my man. It’s cold out there right now.”

            “This’ll help.”

            “Hey Tabby,” Seth says. He hands her a piece of chicken. “How’s my girl?”

            “Wíbthahon,” she says, stone-faced.

            “Kiss for my chicken?”

            She kisses him on the cheek and then she and Sam head back for the bench. “What language is that?” he asks.

            “Ponca,” she says. “My tribe. I used to be Ponca.” She doesn’t have to explain that now she’s a slave.

            Sam rolls a joint and lights it. It’s decent shit, a little skunky for his taste but this isn’t New Orleans and he doesn’t have any connections here and he’s just happy to have it. He pulls his knees to his chin to keep warm and draws on his joint, rolling the smoke through his lungs. He offers it to Tabby but she shakes her head and keeps eating her chicken. When she’s finished she says she wouldn’t mind another cigarette.

            The trucks rumble in, elephantine. They are massive and slow, turning with ponderous grace, air brakes honking. The pot starts to take the edge off things.

            A guy in a sweatshirt that strains his belly walks up and Sam pretends to be oblivious while he negotiates with Tabby. She follows him across the lot, her high heels tapping. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who was a member of a tribe before. He’s certain she’s a felon slave.

            When she climbs into the high cab of the truck, she’s wearing no underwear and Sam sees the flash of her ass.

            He feels colder after that. Nothing to distract him. He hopes Dean doesn’t wake up. He shouldn’t, he’s weak and he sleeps a lot to begin with. The sleeping pill should have him pretty zonked.

            _Grab those kids and get out of here._

            Dean lying in the puddle in the basement. Sam had thought at first he was dead. Then the paramedics and he flashed his service certification so they let him follow in the Impala. He had prayed the entire way. Sasha had told him growing up that you shouldn’t pray for selfish things. Pray for others. Praying for Dean is selfish as fuck because he can’t even explain what his life is with Dean. He just knows he can’t go back.

            Maybe he should just go back and check on Dean?

            They’ve only got the room for another day and he doesn’t know how to use the credit cards. Dean talks about using them up. Dean seems to know when they’re about used up but Sam doesn’t understand how Dean knows. He just has the feeling that he shouldn’t use them, that it might get them in trouble or something.

            He needs this money. For Dean. Even if Dean wouldn’t understand or approve. Sam is used to lying. It’s a fact of life for a slave, the only way to survive. But he feels sick about lying to Dean.

            He pulls out his phone and makes a sudden decision.

            “Hello, sir?” he says at the leave a message. (He’s a little relieved that John didn’t answer his phone. John makes him nervous. Fuck it, John terrifies him.) “This is Sam. I know Dean called you but I don’t know if he told you what’s really going on. He’s hurt bad. They say he’s gonna die. I don’t know what to do. He needs your help really bad. So if you could…I’ll text you the address. I forgot it, I’m sorry.”

            Fucked that up. Sam leans his forehead against his knees and tries to think warm thoughts. After a bit he decides he should be watching for trade.

            Tabby comes back soon enough carrying a 40 oz of Olde English 800 malt liquor. “Any luck?” she asks.

            He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

            “Want a sip?” she asks.

            “Nah, I’m good.” He rolls another joint against his thigh, fingers practiced. He shouldn’t. One should be enough.

            The joint makes the world get softer. More importantly, it shuts his thoughts down.

            Tabby gets another client and comes back. Then a guy gets out of a truck and stands there for a longer than usual time. Sam watches him without making it look like he’s watching him. Finally the guy looks right at Sam and Sam meets his gaze across the stretch of lot. After a minute Sam gets up, stretching. He puts his hands in his back pockets so he’s kind of on display. After a long moment the guy kind of nods.

            Sam looks away then.

            “A hit. A palpable hit,” says Tabby. She’s also apparently not looking at the john.

            “What?” Sam says.

            “Shakespeare quote.”

            Sam decides he likes Tabby who is probably a train wreck but he likes smart people.

            He wanders, apparently aimlessly, to the edge of the lot and walks until the trucks are between him and the restaurant. Some people don’t like everyone to know their business. Especially if they are picking up a guy.

            “You look like you like to party,” the guy says.

            “I do like a party.”

            “Are you looking for someone to party with?”

            “Yessir. I’m licensed in this state. It’s all legal.” Sam isn’t actually licensed here but this state honors licenses from Nevada. Everybody always is licensed in Nevada. If you’re only licensed in one state, it’s Nevada. And Delaware. Something to do with business requirements.

            The guy is in his fifties with nicotine stained teeth and a beer gut. He’s balding. But he looks clean and doesn’t set off Sam’s ‘crazy vibes’ detector. Sam wishes he could find a place like the massage parlor. Luis was always there, all 250 lbs of him, and he was available if clients got out of bounds. Not that it happened to Sam, but it was just nice to know Luis was there.

            “Let me see your chit,” the guy says. Sam wants to say that the cops can get all the chits they want but everybody wants a sense of security so he shows the guy his chit for working the bench.

            “How old are you?”

            “Eighteen,” Sam says. He’s twenty-two.

            “What’re your rates?”

            “A hundred for a blow job.”

            “What to get fucked?”

            “Two hundred.” It’s cheap, but Sam’s desperate. “I’d need to clean up a bit. And my owner requires that you wear a condom.”

            “Okay,” the guy says.

            Sam goes back to the stock bathroom. He doesn’t bother with the enema bulb, instead he digs out his tube of lube and spends a couple of minutes stretching his hole and shoving fingers of lube up his ass. The guy probably wasn’t going to be a jerk, but you never know and Sam hasn’t been fucked in, oh, a year or more.

            The guy has a queen-sized sleep space behind his front seat. The truck is still warm and Sam is glad. He takes off his shoes, flops on his back and shimmies out of his shorts.

            “Damn you’re big.”

            Sam doesn’t know if the guy means his height or his dick but since he’s still pretty soft he figures it’s his height.

            “Can you, I dunno, show a little enthusiasm?”

            Sam obligingly reaches down and jacks his dick. He’s cold, he’s tired, this is a job, so he needs to find something to think about. Dean. Dean, all smooth and muscular. The way Dean moves, so smoothly. Dean’s mouth. That beautiful, beautiful mouth. His cock stiffens. He thinks of how his legs are shaved and maybe Dean would like the way they felt if Sam wrapped them around him, although really, went someone wrapped their legs around Sam, he didn’t remember ever noticing their skin. He thought of how his legs had gotten stronger running and how he would tighten them, heels crossed, if Dean would just get in him.

            Then he reachs down to dig out his lube. “You need a condom?” he asks.

            “I’ve got one,” the man says.

            Sam squirts a clear slump of gel lube and sticks his fingers in his ass, arching off the bed a little, trying to look like he’s hot for this guy. He watches the guy roll the rubber down his dick.

            “You want me—” Sam motions using his fist on the guy’s cock.

            “Nah, no,” the guy says and Sam smiles even though he wants to sigh. That means more time in his ass. It’s not that he hates ass work, it’s just that it’s not as easy as a blow job.

            The guy opens his pants and strips them off with his briefs. He’s hard. Normal sized.

            “You’re pretty,” he says.

            “You should see my brother,” Sam says.

            “You work out.” The guy strokes the tip of his dick across Sam’s hole and Sam makes an obligatory moan.

            “Like that,” Sam says. The more aroused he can get the guy before he shoves in, the sooner it will be over. “Love your cock—”

            “Don’t talk,” the guy says, not mean or anything.

            Sam’s happy to not talk. He closes his eyes, feels the way his high makes everything feel like the only thing he can concentrate on is this one moment. Then this next moment. The guy’s bed smells like a man has been sleeping in it. Sheets need to be washed. The blanket is purple.

            Sam feels the tip of the guy’s cock. He breaths out and relaxes, then pushes out a little to relax the sphincter a little more.

            The guy presses in. He doesn’t ask Sam to tell him if he needs to slow down. Guy has gotten his moves from porn, he’s gonna be hard and fast. It always amazes Sam how a dick, which is a living, hot, thing that gives under his fingers, feels like it’s inflexible as rebar. It burns at the ring of muscle.

            “Little lube?” Sam asks.

            “You’re already slimed with it,” the man says but does as Sam asks.

            Sam feels him put the head back against him and scoot a bit to find the hole. The guys kneeling so Sam has pulled his knees way up. He looks up at the guy but the guy is looking at the cock he’s holding in his hand. Sam’s losing his erection so he thinks about Dean again. Dean’s eyes. Dean’s hands. Dean has beautiful hands. They’re neat, not ungainly huge like Sam’s. Surgeon’s hands, Sam thinks.

            The tip of the guy’s cock is still too high so Sam grunts, “Lower,” and then when the guy does, he pushes into it, taking it, going through the burn.

            “Ahhh,” the guy says.

            They hold a moment like that and then the guy starts pushing again. It’s painful. Too long since Sam last did this. He doesn’t think of Dean, he doesn’t want to associate Dean with pain, instead he rocks into the guy and grits his teeth.

            The guy makes a noise, like this is something. Like this is good. Sam exhales as long breath and tries to find a way to relax past the discomfort. The guy pushes all the way in and Sam makes the wrong noise. But it’s okay, the guy doesn’t care. He’s balls to the wall deep and he starts slowly pulling out and thrusting back in. It’s not great but it gives Sam a chance to accustom to it.

            The guy keeps a steady rhythm and Sam’s eyes are watering, he blinks it away. He’ll have another joint after this even though it will make him too spacey. It’s just been too long. When he was fourteen he could do this all night. Maybe did, once or twice.

            The guy says, “Tighten.”

            Sam squeezes his sphincter and the guy gasps with pleasure. Sam smiles at him. He likes it when guys get off (unless they’re real assholes.) He wants to be good for them. This guy is a truck driver, probably closeted, picking up trade at truck stops. Sam can make it good.

            He just wishes it would go faster. But if it would go faster, the guy wouldn’t have to pay for it, would he. He’d be able to find another guy somewhere. But nobody is going to let some stranger pound their ass for fifteen minutes unless they either love them or are being paid.

            It’s a long long time before the guy grunts and then gasps and Sam can watch the orgasm squeeze him, watch him bare his teeth and watch the tendons stand out in his neck. And then he collapses on Sam. Sam rubs him on the back while he shudders through his aftershocks.

            Even if Sam doesn’t get another john tonight, he’s made his minimum.

            Thank you, he thinks.

            He cleans up in the bathroom then walks stiffly to the bench. Tabby is there nursing her 40oz.

            “Have a seat,” she says.

            He laughs, “Fuck you.”

            “Two-fifty,” she says.

            “Two-fiddy,” he says.

            They grin.

            “Man, I’m out of practice,” he says.

            “I’ve got ibuprofen,” she says. “Want some?” She lets him wash it down with a swallow of her 40oz.

            “You’re the nicest whore I’ve ever met,” he says.

            She laughs so hard that her eyes water.

 

#

 

            He gets back to the motel at a little after three in the morning. He’s made $600 which is not great but far from horrible. Horrible would be sitting on the bench while it rained and making nothing.

            His jaw aches. He got it unwired at the hospital when Dean was there. An orderly took him around the side of the building and used needle nose pliers to get them off. It wasn’t fun but it seemed easier than trying to do it himself. But turns out when you haven’t moved your jaw in weeks, your muscles get sore when you start using it again.

            When he wakes up in a few hours, there’s a text on his phone.

 

_call bobby singer  check journal for phone no  be there as soon as I can._

 

            It’s from John.

 

#

 

            “Singer.”

            Sam had rehearsed what he was going to say but at the sound of the gruff voice on the other end, it all went out of his head. “Um, hi, I’m Sam. Um, John Winchester gave me your number.”

            “John Winchester gave you _my_ number?” The man on the phone was clearly disbelieving.

            “It’s for Dean. It’s about him.” Sam was standing around the corner from their motel. Dean was awake and had insisted on showering. Sam was worried he would fall in the shower but he wanted to make the call and, well, Dean was so, just done, that he wasn’t sure Dean would let him.

            “What’s wrong,” Bobby Singer said.

            “Um…” he didn’t know if he was supposed to say what they did. “We do, you know, construction and—”

            “If you’re with John and Dean Winchester, you’re not doing construction,” Singer said. “You don’t have to tell me a story, just be clear and tell me what you know.”

            “We were fighting a rawhead, sir. Dean shot it with a taser but the basement was full of water.”

            “Balls!” Singer said.

          “It was going to kill the kids and he didn’t have enough time to get clear. His heart is damaged.” As Sam talked, he remembered what he wanted to say. “They say maybe three months. I’m looking for something paranormal, something that can cure him. I used to live in New Orleans, sir, and I know that there are all sorts of things out there. Do you know of anything?”

            “Is John there? Can I talk to him?” Bobby asked.

            “No sir. It’s just me. But I’ll do anything you need me to do.”

            There was a long silence. “Glad you called me, kid. What did you say your name is?”

            “Sam, sir.” Sam wondered if he should say anything about being Dean’s brother. But he wasn’t, not really. Dean’s brother had become something else when he was sold. Stock didn’t really have kin.

            “Sam. I’m gonna get on the horn and put the word out. This your phone?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Okay. You take care of Dean.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “Doctors don’t know the things we know, Sam.” Bobby Singer hangs up.

 

#

 

            Showering. The power event of the day for Dean Winchester. He has trouble getting his breath. Fluid building in his lungs, according to the doctor. He hurts all the time.

            The worst feeling is hard to describe. He’s pushed his body all his life, and he could feel times when his demands were going to come with a cost. Like, you can get really tired but get some rest and you’re back to normal but sometimes you are in a situation and you ask your back, your knees, something to do something that tears and wears in a way that they’ll never come all the way back from.

            Now it’s like he’s got just so much and everything he does draws on that well and it’s never gonna fill back up again.

            It scares him, that feeling. It’s deeply, deeply wrong.

            But it’s also kind of freeing to know he’s going to die. Because, honestly, all bets are off. All the things that have been hanging over him; his dad disappearing, finding his brother and learning he’s a slave, the search for the Yellow-Eyed Demon, wondering always is if this was the hunt, if this was when the other shoe would drop. It always ends bloody or sad and as endings go, this is surprisingly easy.

            They need to do laundry soon—well, no biggie, he’ll be dead in a couple of weeks.

            It’s wonderfully simplifying. If he doesn’t think of who he’s letting down.

            Sam is on his feet when Dean finally gets his ass out of the bathroom but he doesn’t help. Sam’s good about that, not helping unless asked.

            Dean drops to the bed.

            The duffels are packed. Dean looks at his swollen ankles. He’s thirsty, all the time. He’s only allowed a certain amount of water. He feels like…well, he’s dying. He gets faint for no reason as his damaged heart can’t quite get enough blood to his brain.

            “What’s this?” Dean says.

            “When you feel up to it, we’re leaving,” Sam says.

            “Hey, I picked this crappy hotel room to die in and I stand by my decision,” Dean says.

            “You know, this whole I-laugh-in-the-face-of-death thing? It's crap. I can see right through it.” Sam is so serious, so…bitchy. It kind of makes Dean happy to have Sam giving him crap.

            “Yeah, whatever, dude. Have you even slept? You look worse than me.”

            “I've been scouring the Internet. Calling contacts in your Dad's journal.”

            “For what?”

            “For a way to help you. Some guy, Bobby Singer, put me in touch with another guy who’s an old friend of your dad. Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist.”

            Oh fuck. He’s too tired for a wild goose chase. But what the hell, humor Sam. He’s gonna be dead in a couple of weeks, tops. “You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”

            “I'm not gonna let you die, period. We're going.”

 

#

 

            “You called Bobby Singer?” Dean says. He’s just woken up and outside it’s dark, headlights on the road. He’s in the passenger seat and the pain in his chest is constant. If he says something Sam will feed him pills.

            “Yeah, you know him?”

            “Practically grew up at his place,” Dean says. “You told him you’re Sammy, right?”

            Sam glances over at him and then back to the road. “Sammy?”

            “That you’re my brother.”

            “No,” Sam says. “‘Sammy’ sounds like a chubby twelve year old.”

            Dean grins. Since he got zapped, Sam’s been taking care of him and it’s been making Sam more…assertive. Snarky. Something. It makes Dean happy.

            “Bobby is good people,” Dean says. “After this ‘specialist’ we should go see him. He’ll put you up. Also, he can sell the Impala for good money. You can use it to pay the lawyer. But you have to promise me she goes to a good home. Somebody who can take care of her. Somebody who appreciates her.”

            Sam frowns. “There’s a place in six miles. We’re gonna stop there. We need to get you some food to take your medication.”

            “Thanks, Florence.”

            Sam doesn’t get it. Dean doesn’t feel up to explaining a Florence Nightingale reference since all he really knows about her is that she was a nurse or something.

            The motel has a farm motif which apparently means chickens. Chicken prints hung over the bed, chicken wallpaper on one wall. It’s annoying. Dean hopes he doesn’t die here. It feels as if it would be embarrassing.

            Sam goes and gets dinner. He wakes Dean up when he gets back—Dean doesn’t even remember falling asleep. He does that, just sort of grays out. Blood circulation and all.

            Sam hands him a burger. Sam researched diets but the doctor made it clear that they were long past caring about cholesterol so even though he is very careful about how much Dean can drink (too much water will apparently increase the strain on his heart) he bring Dean whatever Dean asks for. Which would be great if Dean was even remotely interested in food.

            He drinks his allotted water and wishes for more. He’s so thirsty all the time. His lips are dry and starting to crack. Sam will let him suck on ice ships.

            Sam makes Dean slide off his boots and sit on the bed and then he starts gently rubbing Dean’s swollen ankles and calves. He rubs Dean’s feet.

            “That’s gross, man,” Dean says.

            “I don’t mind if you don’t,” Sam says.

            “You’re the one who’s going to have stinky hands.”

            Sam smiles a little. “I’ve had worse.”

            Dean doesn’t really want to look too hard at that statement. Fuck it, he’s dying. Sam’s hands feel really good and Dean falls asleep while Sam is rubbing his feet.

 

#

 

            The Impala bumps along a rutted gravel road toward a large white circus tent set up in a field. People are walking from their parked cars, picking their way across the muddy ground. A lot of them are on walkers or are being helped by someone. There’s a sign; _The Church of Roy LeGrange. Faith Healer. Witness The Miracle._

            Dean sits in the passenger seat for a moment, completely taken by surprise. No way. He’s just not going to get out of the car. That’s it.

            Sam opens his door and reaches in to help Dean out. “I got ya.”

            “I got it,” Dean growels. No way is Sam dragging him here and then carting him around. “Man, you are a lying bastard. Thought you said we were going to see a doctor.”

            Sam, who usually wilts at a harsh word is unperturbed. “I believe I said a specialist. Look, Dean, this guy's supposed to be the real deal.”

            Dean thinks once Sam gets over this whole ‘don’t beat me’ thing, he has the potential to be a real pain in the ass. “I can't believe you brought me here to see some guy who heals people out of a tent.”

            There’s an old woman walking past using an umbrella to keep the sun off of her. She cuts her eyes sideways at Dean. “Reverend LeGrange is a great man.”

            “Yeah, that's nice,” Dean mutters. She’s probably the kind of woman who knits pink covers for her tissue boxes. He walks slowly towards the tent.

            There’s a guy with a sign that says, ‘FRAUD’ arguing with a deputy. “I have a right to protest. This man is a fraud. And he's milking all these people out of their hard-earned money.”

            “Sir, this is a place of worship,” the deputy says and gets the guy walking. “Let's go. Move it.”

            Dean flashes Sam a bitter smile. “I take it he's not part of the flock.”  

            “But when people see something they can't explain,” Sam says, “there's controversy.”

            “I mean, come on, Sam,” Dean points out, “a faith healer?” He is too sick to be hauled here. As soon as this little charade is over he’s going to make Sam drive to Bobby’s. He misses the old man. Be good to see him one more time. He hates to think of dying on the guy but maybe they can stay a day or two and head on.

            “Maybe it's time to have a little faith, Dean.”

            Sam sounds sanctimonious. Christ on a crutch, of all people, Sam should be resenting the hell out of the idea of a God that would let a six month old be turned into a slave. Dean rounds on Sam, “You know what I've got faith in? Reality. Knowing what's really going on.”

            “How can you be a skeptic? With the things we see everyday?”

            “Exactly. We see them, we know there real.”

            “But if you know evil's out there, how can you not believe good's out there, too?”

            “Because I've seen what evil does to good people,” Dean says. Sam looks startled and then pained.

            “Maybe God works in mysterious ways,” says a pretty young woman with pale hair. She looks delicate, but fine.

            Pretty. Dean smiles at her. “Maybe he does. I think you just turned me around on the subject.” No sense in pissing off a pretty girl.

            She laughs a little. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

            Dean holds out his hand. “I’m Dean. This is Sam.”

            “Layla,” she says and takes his hand. Her hand is so warm. His hands are never warm anymore. She glances at Sam and the barcode on the back of his hand but doesn’t seem to care. “So if you’re not a believer, then why are you here?”

            Because no matter how hard he tries, some part of his brain in screaming most of the time. What really pisses him off is the tiny tiny bit of hope he suddenly has because he knows if he really lets himself feel it, then he’ll have to deal all over again and honestly, he’s afraid he’ll just crack and all his fear and feelings will come out dumping all over everybody. He’s afraid he’ll never stop, that he’ll drown in his fears.

            What he says is, “Well, apparently Sam here believes enough for the both of us.”

 

#

 

            Inside the tent he wants to just sit down, get the lay of the land, but Sam grabs his arm and half carries him towards the front. He protests but ends up sitting behind Layla and her mother.

            Roy LeGrange is blind. He’s older, white-haired. He slips into some patter about how his wife, Sue Ann, reads the paper to him and Dean feels like if he had the energy he’d want to punch something. He mutters to Sam about the Lord be interested in people’s wallets.

            LeGrange zeros in on him. Tells him to come up. The crowd is excited, clapping. Dean doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t even know how to explain how wrong it feels. He doesn’t want to hope. He doesn’t want to have to worry about laundry. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed when this little ritual turns out to be pointless. He has his burdens, he’s not picking up the burden of other people’s faith.

            But Sam is pushing him and the crowd is excited. LeGrange is explaining how the Lord chose Dean, not him.

            LeGrange’s wife helps him onstage, her grip strong and steady. She’s used to helping the infirm.

            “Pray with me friends!” says LeGrange. The crowd lifts up their arms and joins hands with each other. LeGrange puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, then on the side of his head. The exertion is getting to be too much for Dean, his hammered heart struggling, and he feels woozy.

            Roy says quietly, “Alright now. Alright now.” It’s more to himself than it is to Dean or the crowd. Dean can’t keep standing. He sinks to his knees. Roy’s hand on his head feels heavy, too heavy. “Alright, now,” Roy says again, like Dean is a horse and he’s calming him.

            The world is graying out.

            He can’t see anything or move, he thinks he’s slipped to the stage floor. He can hear Sam yell, “Dean!” The crowd is clapping. Something is happening. Something is being taken. He should hold on to it. Something is here, something cold. Something wrong. Something like death.

            He feels himself being hauled up, his heart slams into solid rhythm, and he opens up his eyes and gasps. Sam is holding onto the front of Dean’s hoody.

            “Say something!” Sam says.

            Dean blinks. Roy is still standing behind him holding his palms out and he’s smiling. Happy. Just behind him is a tall man in a black suit. He has whitish hair and skin like, Dean doesn’t know. He has a mouth that reminds Dean of a turtle—toothless, with his lips curving in. The tall man stares a Dean for a long, long moment and then he turns and walks away. Like he was never there. Dean can’t even see him although he was right there.

            He can feel his heart. He didn’t even know what it felt like until he woke up in the hospital but he can feel it now and it feels right, feels normal. He can drink in air. He doesn’t hurt. It all feels wrong.

 

#

 

            It all is wrong. Of course. The moment Dean was healed, another man, healthy and fit, dropped dead of heart failure. Sam sits at the laptop and finds six other people LeGrange has healed, and six other matching obits.

            “You never should've brought me here,” Dean says.

            Sam stares at the laptop, “I was just trying to save your life.”

            “But, Sam, some guy is dead now because of me.”

            “I didn't know.”

 

#

 

            So they do the thing. Dean explains reapers. They first assume it’s Roy LeGrange but Sam grows suspicious of LeGrange’s wife, Sue Ann, and her odd cross. They need to break the binding spell. LeGrange calls up Layla to finally be healed but Dean knows that Layla wouldn’t want to be someone else’s death.

            He knows because he now carries the death of that other man. Or rather, the life of that other man, now his, running on ahead. Another thing to carry. Another thing to live up to.

            His dad. Sam. The Yellow Eyed Demon. This stranger. His newly whole heart beats like a champ but he, he is so tired.

            Then Sue Ann turns the reaper on Dean. He knows when the reaper reaches for him that he doesn’t want to die. If he had known it was for Layla, would he have done it anyway?

            It doesn’t matter. Sam destroys the binding spell. The reaper, reaching for Dean, turns as if he hears something far away, and is gone. Gone for Sue Ann.

            And every time Sam looks at him, even though Sam wouldn’t say it, he could see it in Sam’s eyes. Sam doesn’t feel sorry. What would Sam have done if he figured out that LeGrange was inadvertently trading a life for a life. Would Sam have gone ahead anyway?

            Sam is smart, did he figure it out and still go ahead?

            No. He knows he didn’t. But in retrospect it seems so obvious it feels easy to think Sam might have.

            He keeps wanting to lash out at Sam but he knows it’s not really fair.

 

#

 

            Sam has a little over $700 burning in his pocket left over from all the expenses of the past couple of weeks. Slaves aren’t supposed to carry money. When Dean gives him a twenty, he puts it in his shoe so no one finds it on him. He has felt uneasy in his skin this last week. Dean responded best to Sam giving him a hard time. Dean likes teasing and arguing. Sam did it. He got hotel rooms, filled the Impala’s tank with gas. (Dean had to talk him through it the first time.) He handled John’s journal (all John has ever said to him is “Don’t touch anything.”)

            He made money. He made Dean take his meds. When he went out, every time he was gone, he got more and more convinced that he would come back and it would be too late.

            He has been the master for a week and he hates it.

            It’s time for things to go back to normal.

            He lays the money carefully on the little table next to Dean’s coffee. Dean is fine. Unhappy about the girl, Layla, who is going to die. Sam is, too. He doesn’t expect free people to die like this. Young. Pretty.

            “What’s this?” Dean asks.

            “While you were sick, I had to cover the motel bills and everything. This is what’s left.”

            They needed gas money and motel money and even more important, money for the prescriptions that were keeping Dean alive. He should have figured out another way but he didn’t know another way. Hell, half the time he feels like he’d almost be better off back in New Orleans, working the massage parlor, jacking off guys who can’t get off without a Viagra and a slave.

            Dean picks up the money and counts it. “Where did you get this?” he asks. Rumbles. Growls.

            Maybe, Sam realizes, he should have waited a bit. Dean was so gentle with the girl. But he’s sad. Sam has figured out that Dean would rather save than be saved.

            “What did you do?” Dean growls.

            “I didn’t steal it,” Sam says.

            “It would be better if you stole it!” Dean says. “Come on. Tell me you didn’t hook for this!”

            Sam has no answer.

            “What, did you go out there and sell yourself on the street? Do you know how crazy that is! You almost got killed one time for buying coffee, Sam!”

            “I went to a truck stop,” Sam stutters. “T-they have hospitality stops where li-licensed stock can—”

            “SON OF A BITCH!” Dean says it with a kind of vehemence. He owns those words. No one will ever be able to say them again, not after the way Dean just has.

            “NO. NO MORE. You can’t do this, goddamn it!” Dean’s so enraged, so swiftly. It’s kind of terrifying. He’s seen Dean kill things and when Dean turns that anger on him he just shuts down. “You don’t sell yourself! You don’t need to! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! FUCK!”

            Dean is seething. He’s up on his feet and he looks like he’s looking for something to punch. “You’re my brother,” Dean says quietly. Then he stalks to the bathroom and slams the door.

            Sam understands. For the first time he thinks he gets it.

            Dean is ashamed to be related to him. How could he not have figured it out? He always knew something was wrong with him. He knew he was weird, that he became a slave because he was…was impure. He always knew something was deeply tainted.

            He can’t change what he is. Dean is trying. Dean thinks if they manage to make Sam a free man, it will all be okay.

            But Sam knows it’s just him all the way down.

           

#

 

            He stares at the bathroom door for a long time.

            It occurs to him Dean is going to come back out and will look at him with those angry, shaming eyes. He knows what he looks like. What he is. He doesn’t need to see it reflected in Dean’s eyes.

            He steps out the front door. Outside is no place. A strip of walkway with cars parked, noses turned in like a row of dogs.

            He has his pass in his pocket. He always carries it, just in case.

            Sam runs. It’s an impulse. He runs every morning now. I likes the way he keeps getting better at it. Able to run longer and longer.

            Dean is through.

            The moment he runs he knows he’s finally, after all these years of being smart, screwed himself. Runaways might get a second chance but he’s too big, too white, too scary. After he’s run a couple of miles he settles into a walk. He has no idea where he’s walking. Not that it matters. They’ll ship him to a crèche and take the skin off his back in front of a bunch of breeder’s kids. Then they’ll cut his throat, if he’s lucky. If they’re done. He’s seen it, too many times. Screaming, and the skin hanging in strips from the flogging and then the moment where they pull the slave’s head back and open their throat.

            How he ends up at a truck stop he has no idea but he’s cold and he’s worn out. He has his wallet. It’s a place to sit and think, a place where people expect a slave. He can at least rest a little.

            He goes through the scan and gets a chit and sits outside. It’s bright and blowy. Too early really for trade. He doesn’t have his hooker clothes, he doesn’t have anything but his phone, his wallet, and what he’s wearing. Hooker. He’s been called a lot of things and it’s been years since he cared. But he didn’t use that money for himself. He used it for Dean. Okay, and a little weed. Maybe that makes him a hooker.

            He doesn’t know how long he sits. His phone rings but he shuts off the ringer. Three people know his phone number—John, that Bobby guy, and Dean. He’s afraid to talk to any of them.

            He’s proud of himself, though. He did it. Dean’s okay. He thinks, actually, that maybe like what Sue Ann was doing with the reaper, they just swapped places. He’s okay with that. There aren’t a lot of old slaves.

            It’s been a couple of hours and he’s hungry and thirsty and feels like shit but still doesn’t know quite what to do.

            “You here to party?” says a guy.

            “Yeah?” Sam says. A little money can’t hurt. Maybe he can find someone in the kitchen who could get him some water.

            “Um…” The guy shifts his weight from foot to foot.

            “Oh, I’m licensed.” Sam shows him the chit. “Whaddya want?”

            The guy wants a blow job. Sam’s relieved. A hand job would be even better but this is good. He follows the guy around the corner of the building. “It’s $100,” Sam says.

            “I only got $75,” the guy says.

            Sam sighs. “Okay.”

            He’s not really working with the guy here, he wouldn’t pay $100 either. He tries to smile. The guy looks away, embarrassed for both of them.

            “I don’t like guys,” he says.

            Sam kneels gingerly on the cracked asphalt.

            “But I’ve got a girl friend. I don’t want to cheat on her, you know?”

            Sam should say something, the usual soothing patter, but he can’t think of what to say so he just unbuckles the guy.

            “Is it okay if I’m a little rough?”

            Sam squints up at the guy.

            “I mean, can I grab your hair?”

            “For $75? No,” Sam says. No sir, his brain screams but Sam doesn’t care.

            “That’s all I got!”

            There’s a black pick-up looking for a parking space but Sam doesn’t mind if the john doesn’t. He unsnaps the guy’s jeans and zips him open. The guy takes his own underwear and shoves it below his balls. The guy grabs his own junk for a moment. Sam waits.

            When the guy opens his hands, Sam takes his whole soft cock into his mouth. It starts filling on his tongue. The guy doesn’t seem too big. Sam bobs a few times and the guy grabs his hair. Fucker. Sam thinks about stopping but decides it isn’t worth it. He’ll finish this guy and take his money. Maybe start walking south. He’s tired of the cold and—

            Someone yanks him back and sprawls on his ass.

            “What the fuck?” the guy says.

            A man says, “Touch him again and I’ll kill you.”

            It’s John Winchester, who is scarier than Sam remembered.

            “He’s a slave,” the guy starts and John throws a punch. It’s like a pile driver. It thrown from way back, with all of John’s shoulder in it. The guy’s head snaps back painfully against the concrete building.

            “Sir, wait,” Sam says. “He’s paying!” He’s trying to figure out to get across to John that this is Sam’s fault but John doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. He hauls the guy up again. “Don’t mouth off to me and don’t touch him,” John snarls.  

            “No, sir! Stop!” Sam stands up. He hasn’t drank anything for hours. Since coffee even. And he’s been sitting outside and he’s feeling wonky. He is terrified of John Winchester. He’s a runaway. He doesn’t mind that it’s all going to end up in death but this, the middle part, he can’t face that. He doesn’t want any more pain. He wants it all to be over.

            John is saying something but everything is getting farther and farther away. Sam is afraid but he can’t do anything about it. And then everything comes to a very small point.

            …

            Someone is saying something. His name. He feels like he’s about a second later on figuring things out. Like someone is saying, “Sam, Sam. Then he gets the sense he’s lying down. Then he realizes that their hands are on him, fingers checking his head, hands skimming his chest. He wants to answer but everything takes about a second, each part of he wants to answer, what were they saying? His name? what should he answer?

            Finally, last, he wants to open his eyes and he manages and blinks and blinks. John is kneeling beside him running his hands over Sam’s shoulders. “Sam.”

            Sam takes a breath and starts to sit up but it’s harder than he expected and it makes him dizzy.

            “S’okay, boy. S’okay.” John opens his cell phone and calls someone. “Dean, I found Sam.”

            …

            “Yeah, I found him.”

            …

            “Dean.”

            …

            “Dean.”

            …

            “Dean, listen! Water. A power bar or something if you’ve got it. A jacket. Texting you the address.” Then John’s full attention is back on Sam. Who really wants to sit up. “You’re okay, son,” John says. “You’re okay.” The ‘son’ is a casual, old school, general address, not a formal declaration of relationship.

            But with that comes a huge flood of shame. John caught him with a mouth full of cock. Dean is going to be so angry. Also, Sam has only fainted twice in his life. Both times in front of Winchesters.

            “I don’t let them touch me,” Sam blurts out. He pushes himself to sit up. “Not ME. I mean, I don’t let them see me.” He barely knows what he is saying, just that when he’s being a slave, it’s like there’s a part of himself that is always watching, that is having thoughts slaves shouldn’t have, feeling secret things that are Sam’s alone.

            Sasha used to whisper to him, “You’re my secret boy,” and oh God he realizes that no one knows him at all. Not since Sasha died.

            These people don’t know him at all.

 

# # #


End file.
